The road ahead was flat and straight and between me and the hazy horizon there was not a car nor a dog walker nor a lawn-mower pusher in sight, let alone another cyclist. It was an early Sunday morning during a sapping heat wave and I was still waking up, 3 or 4 miles from home, at a comfortable clip, humming some stray pop tune. A thin layer of steam hovered over the pavement, and a pair of red-winged blackbirds sat sluggishly in the shadows of a roadside ditch. The landscape was in a stupor. Early rising and early riding are not my thing, but there was no other way to beat the worst of the heat. My goal was unambitious: a few hours of leisurely pedaling and splendid isolation before returning to the air-conditioned world. I slumped onto the bar and breathed deeply. As my legs pumped more quickly, my mind slowed and began its drift—shuffling from memories of an old friend coming through town to the tick I’d pulled from my son’s hair the previous day to the breakfast possibilities back at home.

A sudden gust struck me from behind and I bolted upright. “Oh!” I shouted. I nearly edged off the road. A line of seven riders had materialized and glided past as if floating. “Morning,” said the last rider, without turning his head. I was embarrassed to have been so startled. Had I been talking to myself? How long had the riders had me in sight before overtaking me? Not long, I thought. They were moving like they meant it. Reflexively,­ I leapt from my saddle. For three or four minutes, buoyed by adrenaline, I trailed the group easily, staying back what I considered to be a polite gap of a few bike lengths.

Soon, though, I found myself in an awkward place. The group was not putting ­distance between itself and me as I’d expected, and now that I was warmed up I had no desire to fall back. But I knew I was no match for the tightly organized group. If I tried to accelerate past them, I would end up riding harder than I could sustain, counting the moments before the group saw me flagging, flipped a switch, and overtook me once more, effortlessly.

And so my meditative Sunday-morning­ solitariness, all my thoughts of time future and time past, of toast and eggs—poached? Over easy? Perhaps omelets for me and Emily, who would just be waking when I returned?—vanished. Instead, I was ­consumed with navigating an age-old quandary: where, and how, to belong among other people. I was riding with a group, but I wasn’t part of it. I wanted my space back. Maybe the group wanted me gone. But I wasn’t ready to change my pace or alter my route to separate. And there was no denying that I was enjoying the speed and pursuit.

I was unprepared for what happened next. The lead rider dropped back. But instead of slipping into the space between me and the last member of his pack, he fell in behind me. I hesitated and gave a quick look. The rider, now on my wheel, nodded at me. Was he unaware that I didn’t belong? Was this an open ride, a group of strangers? Or was this the way of Iowans, welcoming anyone they come across?

I pulled closer to the rider ahead of me. After dangling off the back, suddenly I felt clicked into place. I glanced at my speed and saw I was moving 20 percent faster than usual, but because of the slipstream and the singular focus on riding, I didn’t feel overworked. Without meaning to, I’d gotten absorbed by the rhythm of the group. My gaze barely extended beyond the wheel in front of me, the rider’s jersey—Hawkeye black and gold, naturally—and the sunburnt back of his neck. There was no sound except that of my own shallow breathing, the whirring of cogs, the whisper of rubber on ­pavement. “Pick it up,” a voice called. We did. The sun rose into open sky, the pounding heat returned, and sweat began cascading­ off our arms and legs. The rider in front dropped back. I was beginning to feel the wear but I kept pace, and soon I was second in line. We came to a stop sign where I had planned to turn back. But the group continued forward, and I followed.

Some of us ride to be alone, and others only pedal among others. I’ve never questioned which category I belong to. In the past few years, as I’ve sunk deeper into the regimens of work and family, I’ve come to depend on the freedom of riding alone, the respite from the social world, the thicket of obligations, the anxiety of being observed. If I want to talk when I’m out on the road, it’s only to myself, and I trust the power of exertion and repetition—the spinning of wheels, the steady climb—to push me deeper into that interior conversation.

Now and then I ride with a friend and value­ the companionship and the break from what can occasionally be a lonely routine. Changing a flat by myself in a cloud of gnats 30 miles from home is more solitude than I’m looking for—but it’s a fair price for the lessons in stamina, patience, will, and clarity that solo riding provides. I’m not alone in my preference for aloneness. I’ve crossed paths with enough riders in the middle of nowhere—always the quick nod, the wrist flick of mutual recognition—to suspect the existence of a tribe of solitaires.

It was my turn to lead. We headed into a web of narrow roads that wound through isolated farms near Lone Tree. I’d paid close attention to the group’s pace. There was a small hill ahead, and I clenched my jaw ­and powered up. At the top, I glanced back and saw the group had begun to spread out, and I was relieved to back off briefly. I had overdone the hill, and for the next four minutes—I had kept an eye on how long riders pulled—it seemed as though I were riding with weights on my legs. I churned along, sweat pouring off me, until finally I dropped back. I felt a tide of nausea and sprayed water onto my face and chest.

I tried to rest while the others pulled, but I’d emptied myself out, and keeping up took everything. I planned a dignified exit—“Sorry, guys, I’m expected back home”—but before my detour came we encountered a closed road and turned around. The heat was not even softened by a breeze, and for several miles we rode in side-by-side pairs, chatting. The riders were part of a large, informal group. There was an engineer, a guy who worked for the city, a ­computer technician. Like me, they had kids at home. We talked about the heat, summer plans, and—inevitably, in Iowa—corn. They invited me to join them whenever I wished. Then they regrouped and picked up speed. I stayed for a while, taking the lead once more. We came to a hill, and after 30 miles I was glad to allow myself to be dropped and watch the others ride away.

I’ve missed out on a lot as a solo rider. I haven’t experienced the intensities of group training, the competitive rush of keeping up or being ignominiously dropped. Giving yourself over to a common goal, being part of a machine rather than the driver, provides its own deep-felt rewards, and not just on the levels of skill and fitness. In some ways I’m a lesser rider alone. That morning, as I approached home, feeling exhausted and strong, I told myself I’d ride with the group occasionally. It had been a welcome, unexpected change. But I also knew my riding is mostly a matter of getting back to myself, thinking and moving apart from others. My most vital partners will always be my bike, the road, and solitude.